“Yes,” returned Sir Gloster, complacently, “I believe there is a good deal of nice feeling in her acting, but she had only a minor part.” “Bless your simple, innocent heart!” exclaimed the other, “she was the principal figure; she was the whole show; she filled the bill.” “May I ask what you mean?” demanded the baronet, with solemn white dignity. “She was the peri--didn’t you _know_? She dances every bit as well as Lottie Collins or Sylvia Grey, doesn’t she, Capel?” appealing eagerly to his comrade. “Yes; and I’d have gone to see her again to-night, only for this beastly court-martial. I gave my ticket over to Manders, for he couldn’t get a place. She draws like a chimney on fire; there is no squeezing in at the door--even window-sills were at a premium. You ought to go on, Sir Gloster; of course _you_ will get a seat,” with a significant laugh. “This is the last performance, and, upon my word, you should not _miss_ it.” Sir Gloster remained mute. Was it possible that his little Lalla, who wrote him such sweet, endearing notes, had deliberately broken her word, and defied him? At the very thought of such a crime his white flabby face grew rigid. Seeing was believing. He would take this crack-brained young man’s advice, and hurry on. He might manage to be in Shirani by eight o’clock that evening--just in time to dress and get to the play. His wrath was hot within him--and the anger of a quiet and lethargic person, when once roused, is a very deadly thing. His sturdy hill ponies bore the first brunt of his indignation; and Sir Gloster, who was naturally a timid horseman, for once threw fear to the winds, and galloped as recklessly as Toby Joy himself. He arrived at the club just in time to swallow a few mouthfuls, change his clothes, and set off to the theatre. He could not get a seat, but “he might, if he liked, stand near the door, with his back to the wall,” and for this handsome privilege he paid four rupees--the best-laid-out money he ever invested, as he subsequently declared. The curtain had already risen; the scene looked marvellously like fairyland. Toby Joy had just concluded a capital topical song, when a large egg was carefully rolled upon the stage. The egg-shell opened without the application of a spoon, and hatched out a most exquisite creature, the peri, whose appearance was the signal for a thunder of hand-clapping. The peri--yes--was Lalla, in very short, fleecy petticoats, with a twinkling star in her hair--his own present, as Sir Gloster noted with an additional spasm of indignation. Presently she began to dance.